


I FUCKING HATE YOU and other lies I've said

by Fierce_Witchling



Series: I FUCKING HATE YOU [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Dacryphilia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Mind Games, Neighbors, Stalking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26876758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fierce_Witchling/pseuds/Fierce_Witchling
Summary: This is or is not a terrible love story between neighbors.Thank you for reading.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: I FUCKING HATE YOU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960849
Kudos: 7





	I FUCKING HATE YOU and other lies I've said

**Author's Note:**

> This is or is not a terrible love story between neighbors.  
> Thank you for reading.

He pulled a strand of hair, twisting my curl around his finger. Tugging my head to the side. He let the curl bounce against my cheek. My eyes followed his finger as he brushed it against his lips. Followed as he held in that silent, mocking laugh. The curve of his mouth. Each breath made his muscles shake. 

"You're an asshole." I shook my head, shaking off his touch. 

The asshole was standing, as always, a little too close. Everything about his closeness was irritating. The tickle of his breath. The maddening spark in his dark eyes. The distracting flex in his too tight t-shirt. 

He was so close. His overwhelming smell claimed residence in my clothes. Something of salt and woods; quintessential man. Nesting in my hair. His body warming my skin like he was the human equivalent of a heating blanket. Absolutely irritating. 

It wasn't that surprising to see him at the gas station, standing behind me. We were neighbors. And he was the worst kind. Always in my way. 

Yet I often found myself in front of him. Walking up the stairs, out the door, to our cars. I would step in front, feigning to lead. He would walk behind. Somehow, I still felt like the one following. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

He had Thursday's off. Those days I would hurry home. Purely out of joy to be done with work. I'd strip my clothes at the door. Change into my softest lingerie. Settle on the couch and grab the book I'd been reading the past month. I would read, relax. Unwind. 

I would pretend not to hear his sexy, steady murmur next door. The stimulating sound of his voice. And it wasn't because I had moved the couch to our shared wall. The walls are thin. He was just so loud!

I would pretend not to listen as he'd describe unspeakable acts to god knows who. I would pretend that my fingers didn't push inside as I imagined him describing those things to me. Doing those things to me. 

In my head I would say things like, he should be quieter or I need to move my couch. In reality, I'd dim the lights and snuggle deeper into the warmth of the cushions. My fingers pushing deeper inside the warmth of my cunt. 

The next morning I would hear his front door lock. By coincidence we would leave at the same time. Sometimes, it seemed he took an extra second at the door. Waiting. Watching.

We would stand outside our homes and he would look. He would eye me up and down, in that slow manner of his. Every time my spine would straighten. Every time I fought to stay still.

We would not walk together but we parked side by side. He would circle around me, strolling to his car. His shoulder casually catching mine. He would lean against his door. He was too tall to be leaning yet somehow his slouch looked natural. Predatory. Intoxicating. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

"Enjoying the view?" 

I jumped, my keys clattering to the ground. My arm elbowed the counter. I rubbed at it furiously, looking up, up, up into that gaze. I stared at him as he stared into me. I fucking hated him. 

The gas station attendant repeated my total. Shaking my head again, I shoved money under the glass. I gathered my water, flashing an apologetic smile to the clerk. I turned to the man behind me, smiling my best smile. I gave him the finger and escaped out the door. 

Climbing into the car, I threw my things in the back. I banged my head against the seat. He's so frustrating! And he hardly spoke to me. How come he bothered me?

His stare, always that look. As if he was hunting me, tracking me. Who did he think he was? Who did he think I was? That he could touch me? His hand in my hair… 

I hit the steering wheel, honking the horn. I jumped, looking to see if anyone was offended. It wasn't that surprising to see him standing, outside my car. 

I traced his silhouette through the window. Following the pulse in his neck as he swallowed. His tongue parted those soft lips and I felt my own open in response. He moved his mouth. Those full, slightly chapped lips that told elaborate stories and...  
Oh... he was moving his mouth. 

"What?" I opened the door. 

"Your wallet's inside. Guy wouldn't let me take it." 

I hurried out the car, almost shutting my pant leg in the process. I bit my cheek, hard. Holding in the usual sarcasm, trying to ignore my clumsy anxiety. I swear I heard him laugh. His smirk followed me into the store.

As I walked up to the counter, I felt a hand circle my arm. The fuck? I looked the million miles up, up his towering form. His fingers tightened on my bicep. I stopped, glaring him down. He pulled. His eyes insisted. I followed him into the hall.

"What?" My brows raised. But he was shoving open a door. He shoved me through the door.

I found myself stumbling into a bathroom. A dirty, public, gas station bathroom. My knees hit the floor. My palms came next. I cringed away from a wad of toilet paper. A grimy mop bucket decorated the corner. It was quite romantic.

I looked up to repeat myself and was interrupted by his fist in my hair. That hand again entangling, twisting. He jerked me to my feet. I followed, feet all awkward in my hurry. I looked to see if he noticed. 

We stood there, his fist in my hair, his eyes on mine. I looked away at their intensity. I waited for a command, an asshole comment, anything. But he kept his beautiful mouth closed, showcasing his knowing smirk. I felt my jaw open and shut, flapping uselessly. 

He led me backwards, my feet now as useless as my mouth. I hit the sink, his stare confidently guiding me. My spine strained, my ass practically sitting in the bowl. 

He loomed over me and I knew I was only half right. This man could never slouch; he was unmovable. A wall, one positioned to block out the rest of the world.

His hand grabbed my jaw and my head fell against the mirror. The rest of my body continued to gravitate forward. I gripped the sink tightly, stabilizing. My clothed cunt brushed against his jeans. He was hard. I was wet.

"I know you." It was that voice, one I heard a thousand times. A low murmur usually spoken behind a barrier of false anonymity. Those words unearthed the part of me long buried behind walls. 

"Obviously, we live next…"

As his hand slapped my face, my only thought was of victory. Of winning. Finally, my heart screamed. Finally he knows. I felt the swell in my lip, the drip down my thigh. An overwhelming sense of pride clawed at my skin. 

"I know who you are, I know what you are. Whore." 

And then it left. The scratching facade being replaced by the reality of sulfur and piss. The stench of ammonia couldn't hide the stench of my needy little cunt and I knew I was right to despise him. Right to have hid from him.

"I know what you want, you curious little slut."

I batted his arm away and he laughed. A wicked, familiar sound. A sound usually muffled, as I hid behind the door in my safely locked apartment. My hand between my legs pretending; pretending I was doing those things because I wanted to. Not because I was listening. I was told to.

"Nosy, needy little bitch." His nose nuzzled mine as he spoke and my eyes shut tight. I gripped the sink, my fingers aching. He laughed again. I tried and I failed to hide the rise and fall of my chest, to hide the drip, drip, drip between my thighs. 

I felt myself wanting to push back. Feel the stubble of his chin on my cheek, down my neck, between my legs. I shifted my back against the glass to gain any sort of distance. 

And his laugh penetrated me and he was reaching down and he was watching me, watching me, and then he was unbuttoning my pants. The deep, dark waters of his eyes consumed me and I wanted to drown, drown, drown. He pulled them down, pulled my panties down, over my ass. Binding my knees together. 

"No! I'm not…" It felt like a scream but the whisper barely touched my mouth.

He cupped my pussy, his jaw clenching shut and I widened my legs another inch.  
My knees parted and still I tried to slam my cunt closed. His fingers impaled me and the relief and joy invaded every inch where he stroked.

"No, please." My legs spread and I thrust forward as he pushed back. My hands on the sink a life preserver to his turbulence. They ached, every part of me screaming. 

His hand penetrated. His stare consumed me. And that goddamn knowing smirk! As my eyes began to water and my cunt continued to leak I knew, I knew I only meant please.

A slap echoed, the wet sound of my cunt betraying my protest. He did it again, again; watching me, repeating those things he whispered at home. Doing these things, to me. And it hurt. It hurt.

He removed his hand, spinning me around, my thighs banging into the sink. I braced my hands on each side, narrowly avoiding caked on soap and spit and who knows what else. I watched his hands closely, begging for their return. Telling them to stay away. 

I managed to close my eyes and I knew that if I could close them tight enough, I'd be able to pretend this wasn't the wettest I've ever been. I would be able to shut away the thought that I've been begging for this behind a shared wall every night. Each slip I put on wasn't to simulate the caress of his hand; the words in my erotica that I read over and over weren't a substitution for his voice caressing my ear. 

He wrapped his hand behind my neck. His other cradled my jaw. He forced my eyes to the mirror. He stared. I closed my eyes.

"Look at me."

No! No, anything else. I hated this. I hated him. I shook my head. 

"Look. At. Me." 

I bit my lip, hiding their tremble. Repeating in my head, no, no, yes, please. A ringing signaled his unbuckling belt. The sound was the most soothing and terrifying thing I'd ever heard. I felt his kiss at my neck. I opened my eyes. 

Our eyes locked, his knowing shade of perfection, mine a mess of mascara and contempt. His unaffected stare only brought on more tears. The tears slid down the ruined playground of my face. My cum slid down my thighs. He kissed me again. 

"You watch me because you need me. You don't have a choice. You never have. You're sick. Twisted. A needy, obsessive little whore. And I'm going to fuck you. Because I can. Because I want to. Because I own you." 

When he pushed inside me, it was achingly slow. He pushed with a surgeon's precision, his cock the scalpel cutting into my cunt. I hadn't thought there was anything wrong with me until that moment. 

My no was hiccuped by a racking sob, my yes betrayed by the pull of my aching cunt but I knew he heard every word. He gripped my hips and fucked me like he knew me. He fucked me like we had spent hours, days, years exploring what makes us scream, cry, cum. 

It wasn't until his cock was buried so far inside me that I knew. I knew every wall I built and every door I closed was a lie. Nothing could hide me from him. I would always be found. He'd known who I was since the day I was born.

As my body trembled and his pace never faltered I felt both despair and relief. Each thrust echoed his words. Demanding. "Look at you, whore. Look at me. You need this. You need me."  
Even through the tears, I couldn't take my eyes off him. I hated him.


End file.
